leighton’s leaning against the cold tile wall of the bathroom, knees bent, heels digging slightly into the floor, one hand pressed against her forehead like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. the sound of muffled music drifts through the cracked door, bass shaking the floor, but it barely registers. she’s too far gone in her own storm.

her makeup is streaked, mascara running down her cheeks, the kind of mess she normally would have fixed in a second with wipes and a dab of powder, but tonight she doesn’t care. her other hand clutches the edge of the sink like it’s holding her together, knuckles white, nails chipped despite the fresh polish she swore she did earlier.

she lets out a harsh, shaky breath, exhaling through her nose like she’s trying to convince herself she’s fine, even as the tears keep falling. the perfume she always wears, the one that clings to her skin and hair no matter what, is mixed with the faint, bitter tang of vodka she swiped from her bag earlier.

“stupid,” she mutters under her breath, voice cracking. “i’m so stupid.”

her phone vibrates in her pocket. probably a text from someone asking where she is, but she ignores it. she doesn’t want anyone coming in, seeing her like this. the leighton everyone knows. the loud, flawless, untouchable leighton wouldn’t ever be found crying in a bathroom. but right now, no one else matters.

she wipes at her face with the back of her hand, smearing the mascara further, and lets herself sink lower, resting her elbows on her knees. her breath hitches and she can’t stop it, and for a moment, she wishes she could disappear into the tile, vanish into the echoing thump of the party outside.

she huffs out another laugh, bitter and small, like a joke only she would get. “perfect leighton,” she says quietly, the words tasting like ash. “my ass.”